‘I’m guessing not.’
‘You’d guess right, and it made me the man I am!’ Hugh banged his hand on the desk.
It saddened him not to receive a response.
‘You haven’t answered my question, Dad, do you love me?’
Hugh looked down at the desk and took a moment, his discomfort evident. And it spoke volumes. It saddened him, that his father had not experienced the warm and comforting knowledge that Benjamin shared with his mother, would never know what it felt like to love your child and be loved in return.
‘I think it’s very easy, Dad, to say I do, I love you, I love you! It takes seconds, and would, I think, make all the difference.’
Benjamin turned to leave the room, and, in the same second, shuddered, finding himself once more alone at the desk with his brandy.
‘What the hell!’ He took slow breaths, staring at the painting of the old man above the mantelpiece. ‘What the actual hell!’
So yes, Benjamin Stokes-Rattigan was in shock, and it wasn’t solely down to the fact that his father had died, but more what had occurred in the study, when he’d been gifted time by Chen. Stepping from the shower, he dried himself slowly and wiped the steam from the mirror, staring at the face looking back at him.
‘I guess that’s the question, are you made of the right stuff?’ he asked, saddened, again not to receive a response.
The church was, as he’d expected, busy. His mother took a seat towards the back of the room. She stood out to him, the woman who loved him unconditionally. It was surreal, hearing the accolades listed of the man who was his father, listening to the stirring music while the mahogany and brass coffin bedecked in lilies sat on a trestle by the alter, closest to God.
‘…and now his son, Benjamin.’
He almost missed his cue, before standing and walking briskly to the shiny brass lectern, still quite unsure of what to say, where to start.
‘Thank you all for coming here today.’ His voice rang out. It threw him a little. ‘I know it would mean a lot to my father to see this service so well attended. What can I say about Hugh Stokes-Rattigan? He was a man who, who loved cricket.’ He paused. ‘A man who believed happiness was overrated and that contentment is for goldfish and simpletons.’ He looked out over the congregation whose expressions were mostly perplexed. ‘He was married to my mother for a while, his first wife. She’s aremarkable woman, my mum. She lives quietly and kindly in a cottage along the coast. My father left her when she was fighting breast cancer. I’m sure he loved her in his own way, but all good things come to an end, right?’ There was the faint ripple of awkward laughter that echoed up to the rafters.
‘I’ve come to the conclusion over the last couple of weeks that, actually,I’ma simpleton.’ This time, as he spoke with tears sheeting his face and all eyes on him, the room was very quiet, gripped by the sincerity of his words, ‘I’m not my father. I want to walk around in a tracksuit and worry about what to have for supper. I want to look forward to watching something on the telly. I want to figure out life and how to live it. I want not to feel like an imposter. I don’t want to keep the ship steady, I want to dive into the water and swim!’ His head fell forward, as his sadness poured from him, and he wiped away his tears with the palm of his hand. ‘I’d like to end by saying, that’s my advice to you all, especially you, Marcus.’ He held his brother’s gaze, ‘just dive into the water, and swim.’
It was as he walked from behind the brass lectern that Marcus shook his head, and mouthed, ‘Dickhead!’
The air outside the church was fresh, the sky blue, and the sun did its best to make its presence felt.
Benjamin looked back at the solid doors of the church whereHe Who Would Valiant Bewas being sung with vigour.
‘You might be right, Marcus, but I’m a dickhead who is free! I’m bloody free!’
Loosening his tie, he ran then, down to the beach, towards the sea.
He began to hum the tune ofMessage in a Bottle, by The Police (the group, not the emergency service) – knowing he was done with being lonely and was not about to riskhislife falling into despair.
‘Thank you, Chen!’ he called, as he kicked of his well-polished shoes, peeled off his cashmere socks, and prepared to dive in…
‘Thank you!’
Chapter Seven - Mikey Charles Frewin
Aged 47
Thornton, Liverpool
‘Can I get you anything before I head off?’ Mikey asked from the bedroom door, wary of disturbing the lump in the middle of their bed, yet equally fearful of abandoning her at this time. He always knew it was going to be a difficult few days, and it was.
‘No.’
He had to listen hard to make out her response, no more than a thin whisper from a throat riven with sadness, as if every word that left her mouth had to travel over broken glass.
‘I thought you might, might want a cup of tea, or —’
